


It All Breaks Open

by eleanor_lavish



Series: Wash the Echoes Out [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: First Time, Multi, PTSD, Threesomes, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lagertha warned him of patience, but Ragnar was not prepared for this, for the slow, steady build from avenger to lover. </i>
</p><p>A sequel to "Wash the Echoes Out" but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It All Breaks Open

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mere, MC, Olivia and Yeats for their patience and their guidance. For them, always.

Lagertha warned him of patience, but Ragnar was not prepared for this, for the slow, steady build from avenger to lover. 

Athelstan proves free with kisses, melting into them when Ragnar finds him out behind the house and wraps him in his arms. Athelstan’s mouth is a wonder, soft and kind and clever as the rest of him, and it opens for Ragnar easily, now. It’s been two weeks though, and Athelstan still shudders when Ragnar grips his hip to pull him closer, shudders from anxiousness as much as desire. Athelstan tries to ignore it, pushes through the fear to press against Ragnar’s hardness, but when Ragnar slips his thigh between the priest’s there is no answering hardness there.

So Ragnar walks away from kiss after kiss, hard in his pants and panting like he’s just come from battle. Each time, Lagertha greets him with open arms and a twist of her lips. “Time, husband,” she says as he lifts her up and tosses her onto the furs of their bed.

“Fuck you both,” he growls, but she just laughs and writhes against him as he pushes into her.

*

Lagertha kisses Athelstan only when he comes to her, questioning. “I do not know how this is to work,” he says, face flushed but eyes unblinking. 

“It is to work how you would like, priest,” she smiles at him.

“I- I don’t know,” he stammers, and she steps close. Ragnar watches from his seat at the table.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asks plainly. When Athelstan looks at Ragnar, she tugs his chin back so he is looking into her eyes. “Do not look to him,” she says, sharp. Ragnar just laughs, his head tossed back. “Yes?” she asks, her strong hand curling around Athelstan’s waist. “Or no?”

“Yes,” Athelstan breathes, and Lagertha graces him with a kiss as strong as it is chaste. 

*

“You know that I want -” Athelstan says, haltingly, the next time it happens. “I dream of it, of your hands on me. I feel myself grow -” he drifts off, blushing, motioning to his groin. “But in the day, when your hands are real, I cannot -”

“Shhh,” Ragnar kisses his mouth softly, again and again. His frustration is terrible, but he will not let Athelstan see it, not when he is still so raw. “When you are ready,” he says, but he cannot stop being jealous of his dream self.

*

“Do you wish to sleep with us?” Lagertha asks him one evening, taking a bold step. Ragnar has been too afraid to push, in fear of pushing Athelstan away from them, but his wife only smiles and presses her hand to Athelstan’s arm. “Only sleep, if you wish it.”

Ragnar is surprised when Athelstan nods, a blush creeping over his cheeks. “Just to sleep, for now,” he says, and Ragnar’s loins start to fill before he can control himself. Lagertha swats the side of his head, but he knows her, knows how she watches Athelstan’s soft mouth when he speaks, knows that she has thought of that mouth between her thighs, of bucking and gasping against his clever tongue.

It is as every other night when they go to bed, though Lagertha leaves on her thin shrift and Ragnar his light woolen pants. The priest takes off his shoes and his socks, but leaves the rest of his work clothes intact as he climbs onto their platform of furs and blankets. “We will not bite,” Lagertha laughs, laying back and beckoning to him with her arms.

“Speak for yourself,” Ragnar says, joking. 

Athelstan lays down stiffly next to his wife, and Ragnar’s heart beats faster to see them together, her long blond hair spilling over his shoulder, his dark curls on the same pillow. “Are you coming to bed?” Athelstan says with a small smile. Ragnar bites back a groan and slips in on Athelstan’s other side. 

They jostle for a moment before Lagertha puts her hand on Athelstan’s elbow and tugs until he’s rolled onto his side, facing her. “Ragnar likes to lie behind, like so,” she says just as Ragnar fits his chest against Athelstan’s back and wraps an arm around his waist. He sighs, content, into the back of Athelstan’s neck. He cannot see Athelstan’s face, but his wife laughs, delighted, and he gives Athelstan a squeeze around his middle. Athelstan shivers, and Ragnar can hear his wife shushing him gently, hear the soft, wet sound of her mouth on his. He is still so tense in Ragnar’s arms, but he can feel the priest try to relax against him. “We shall sleep,” she says, and Ragnar sends a reminder to his half-hard cock not to cause trouble, even with Athelstan’s backside pressed firmly against him.

“We promise, only sleep,” Ragnar says, and kisses Athelstan’s shoulder. “Try to remember to breathe, little bird,” he says firmly and Athelstan chuckles.

Ragnar falls asleep quicker than he would have expected with Athelstan this close. When he wakes in the night, Athelstan has slumped forward, his arm around Lagertha’s waist, his breathing deep and even. He smooths a hand over Athelstan’s hip and tries to ignore his aching cock. “It’s taking everything in your power not to hump his leg like a dog, isn’t it,” Lagertha whispers to him, and he reaches over Athelstan’s body to pinch her arm. She laughs, and the movement causes Athelstan’s mouth to fall dangerously close to her breast. She gasps and Ragnar grins at her in the dark.

“Now who is the horny dog?” he taunts, “Go back to sleep.”

The second half of the night passes much more slowly, Ragnar waking to every movement of Athelstan against him, hearing Lagertha’s soft sighs on the other side of the bed.

*

Ragnar and Lagertha are both cranky all of the next day, with each other more than anyone else. Athelstan watches them, worried, and when night falls he makes movement toward his own bed.

“Where are you going, bird?” Lagertha says to him, frowning. She points to their shared bed, and Athelstan glances at Ragnar.

“You already have your invitation - would you like us to sing it for you?” he snaps, and Athelstan’s frown grows deeper. 

“I do not wish to cause -” but his objection is cut off by Ragnar’s mouth, his tongue pushing the words back into Athelstan’s throat. 

“We will always have room for you in our bed,” Lagertha says as they pull apart. Her voice is low and rough and Ragnar’s want courses through him.

Athelstan looks long at Ragnar’s face before nodding. This time, when they climb into the bed, Ragnar puts Lagertha in the middle, on her back, pressing his hardness to her hip as they settle together. He can see Athelstan’s face this way, and watching him watch them - it’s almost worse than the night before. Athelstan’s face is open and wanting, but there is so much uncertainty still in it, mixed with a fierce determination. 

Ragnar’s hips rut against Lagertha and Athelstan follows the movement with his eyes, his hands balled into fists, tucked under his chin. His eyes follow when Ragnar traces the swell of his wife’s hip with one hand, lets it drift up her side until he’s cupping one round breast. The stiff peaks of Lagertha’s nipples are easily visible through her shrift. “Would you like to see her, priest?” he says. Athelstan’s breathing is harsh, but he nods and does not turn away as Ragnar slowly draws the material up Lagertha’s body, baring her skin inch by inch.

Lagertha reaches over to card her fingers gently through Athelstan’s hair. “You like to look at me,” she says to him, her smile knowing and kind. 

“Yes,” Athelstan whispers, and she brushes a gentle thumb across his flushed cheek. Ragnar’s fingers slide over her bare stomach and she arches into his touch. He catches Athelstan’s eyes and grins, holding his gaze as he lowers his mouth to her breast. “Ah,” Lagertha gasps, and Ragnar knows she’s playing with Athelstan as well, knows she’s just as eager to keep Athelstan’s eyes on them. And Athelstan’s gaze never wavers, even as his fingers clench in the furs underneath him.

It is not the first time Ragnar and Lagertha have made love in the presence of another - they regularly offer themselves to Freya and Freyr, open and unashamed. But the priest’s gaze creates something liquid and hot in Ragnar’s belly, and he knows this coupling will be different because they do it for him as much as for themselves. When it comes to the touch of a hand on his bare skin, Athelstan knows only terror and shame, and they both yearn to show him a different way.

“Ragnar,” Lagertha says to him, breathless, as he suckles at her breasts, his hands roaming freely over her body. Her thighs open for him and Ragnar’s still-clothed leg slips between them; she is so slick that the fabric darkens from her wetness. He dips his fingers into her cunt, rolling his fingers deftly over her arousal until she bites at his shoulder in ecstasy. Athelstan’s eyes are hooded, his breaths coming in short pants. Ragnar is certain he is hard now, certain he could reach across the inches between them and make Athelstan cry out, but instead he lifts his fingers to his mouth, breathes in the scent of his wife’s musk before tasting it on his tongue. 

“Would you like to taste her?” he asks, his voice a rumbled whisper. 

“I- Ragnar,” Athelstan keens, “please, don’t -”

Lagertha slips a hand into Ragnar’s pants and palms the length of him. “You always push, husband,” she says, and he would laugh but her nail nips at the crown of his cock and he groans instead. “We said we would not touch him, and we do not break our promises.” She takes him in hand and Ragnar fucks into the tightness of her fist before she turns to Athelstan with a sly glint in her eye. “You should remove these, Ragnar,” she says, tugging on his clothes, “and let our boy see you, see how happy this makes you.”

Ragnar grins - he is exceptionally happy at the moment, and glad to share it with these two whom he holds most dear. He pushes to his knees and unties his pants, watching Athelstan’s face as he rolls them down his hips. They snag on his erection so that it bobs eagerly. He takes his cock in hand and strokes it a few times, slow and tight. 

“Ragnar,” Athelstan says, his voice a quiet gasp, and Ragnar feels the want in his belly course through him. 

“Come on,” Lagertha says, her nails scraping lightly over his thighs. When he looks down, her eyes are dark. “Or are you enjoying the view too much to be of real use?”

“The view is very nice,” he says, not taking his eyes from Athelstan’s pink tongue as it darts out to wet his lips, “but I do not wish to keep you waiting, wife.” He lines up his cock and eases inside her slowly, slow enough that Athelstan can see every agonizing inch. Lagertha tosses her head back on and curses at Ragnar, beating his arm with one strong fist, urging him to go faster. 

Athelstan’s breathing is uneven, his legs restless, shifting against each other, looking for friction. Ragnar can see it now, the outline of his cock pressing against the cloth of his pants. It’s maddening. “Please -” Athelstan murmurs. 

“What do you want, my love?” Ragnar says, and Athelstan’s quiet whimper is drowned out by the harsh tone of his wife beneath him.

“I want you to fuck me, you useless son of a -” 

Ragnar smiles wolfishly and cuts her off with a kiss that is half-challenge. Lagertha wraps her strong thighs around his hips and arches up to meet his thrusts. Ragnar groans and snaps his hips forward hard enough that the slap of skin-on-skin echoes off the roof. Ragnar loses himself in it, in the frenzied passion he sometimes shares with the only woman who can match him, blow for blow. They are not gentle with each other, but they are careful - they know each other’s bodies and boundaries, how to push each other to the brink of release and how to tease until one of them breaks and begs. Ragnar watches Athelstan’s face as he fucks his beautiful wife, and he wonders what would push his priest to that place, where he is pleading for Ragnar’s hands on him, for Lagertha’s mouth to push him over the edge.

“Bird,” he says, reaching out before his mind can catch up to him. He wraps a hand around the back of Athelstan’s neck, yanks him forward until their faces are nearly touching. Athelstan’s eyes are nearly black. Lagertha turns and presses her face, open-mouthed, to Athelstan’s shoulder, and Ragnar can feel him shudder. Ragnar pulls his hand back like it was burned. “Sorry, I am sorry -” he says, because he knows this dance is delicate, knows he is the one mostly likely to spook their bird back into the rafters. 

But Athelstan merely sways forward, pressing his mouth to Ragnar’s in a desperate, sloppy kiss. Below him, Lagertha makes a sound like she is dying. “Watch, priest,” Ragnar murmurs against Athelstan’s lips. He can feel the wave of her pleasure building and cresting until his body is held tight in the vice of thighs, her whole body quivering. Athelstan is quivering too, sweat dripping down the hollow of his throat. While his wife comes slowly back to herself, Ragnar smooths back her hair, her face damp and slack. 

“Is she not most beautiful like this?” Ragnar asks. He pushes her hair gently behind her ear, and Lagertha smiles. “This is what we would give to you.”

“And this,” Lagertha says, Her eyes are still half-mast as she shifts just enough that Ragnar slips free of her. She grasps his cock in her hand and pumps it skillfully; Ragnar feels the edge slipping toward him too quickly. He pulls Athelstan in for a kiss, then another. “Let him see you,” Lagertha says, laughing. 

“He can see me,” Ragnar grits out, his head dropping forward as her strokes speed up. Athelstan is pressed so close now that Ragnar can feel the heat of him, can smell sweat and sex on his skin. He presses his face to Athelstan’s shoulder as he comes, breathing him in as his seed spills hot onto his wife’s belly. He can vaguely feel Athelstan’s hand coming up to cradle his head, to hold him close as his breathing evens out.

When he comes back to himself, Athelstan’s hand is still there, fingers threaded through the long hair at the nape of Ragnar’s neck. Athelstan is kissing his wife, their mouths sliding together with slick sounds that make Ragnar sigh against Athelstan’s skin. He loops an arm around Athelstan’s waist to pull him closer, tight against Ragnar’s side; Athelstan gasps and Ragnar’s skin runs hot.

“You are still -” Ragnar says, and Athelstan nods mutely, his eyes squeezed tight. Ragnar laughs, and Athelstan tucks his face against Lagertha’s shoulder, embarrassed. “No, no, little bird,” Ragnar says, delighted, “this is good news, is it not?”

“I don’t see how -” Athelstan starts, but Lagertha shushes him.

“There is no need to bear it,” she tells him. “If you wish your release, you should take it.”

Athelstan is still so strange about sex, about touch, and Ragnar knows he rarely takes himself in hand. But he will not touch Athelstan himself, not yet, not when this is still so new. “We would like to watch you, priest,” he murmurs low in Athelstan’s ear. “It is only fair, do you agree?”

“Yes,” Athelstan breathes, “but I do not know -”

“Close your eyes,” Lagertha says gently, “We do not need to see anything you cannot show us. There is time for that later. Do only what will bring you happiness, and not doubt.”

Ragnar exhales sharply, but he holds his tongue. There is time enough, he is certain, but he hopes fervently that the priest will let himself go, will let them witness him come undone. They are pressed close enough that Ragnar can feel the slide of Athelstan’s hand on his bare skin as he reaches down. His movements are tentative, his face still pressed to Lagertha’s side. “You have not been the only one waiting for this,” Ragnar says. “I have wanted,” he starts. “You are so -” But Ragnar has no words for it, for what the priest has done to him, to them. He shifts his hips enough to press closer to Athelstan, to give him some friction, to feel the hardness of him, the heat of him, to let that speak for him.

“Oh,” Athelstan cries. “Ragnar, please.” 

“You can use my body any way you’d like,” Ragnar says, feeling smug and glowing, basking in the trembles and gasps of Athelstan as he takes his pleasure, letting them close as he breaks open. 

“My husband likes to make others happy,” Lagertha replies, equally smug, and Ragnar laughs. “But for now, we just want to see you have this, to be close to us,” she tells Athelstan. “Touch yourself,” she says, and it’s not a command, but Ragnar does not see how anyone could ever deny her. Athelstan’s shiver at her words means that he certainly cannot. Ragnar holds his breath until he feels Athelstan’s hand slip into his pants; when he gives a first, tentative tug on his cock, they both exhale, shaky and harsh. 

“Do you wish to see -” he asks, unable even now to say ‘my cock’. _I will help him learn,_ he thinks, and wonders if hearing that word from the priest’s mouth will one day cause him to come undone. But that day is in the future. Now, Ragnar shakes his head. 

“We will see it here,” he says, brushing a thumb over the swell of Athelstan’s lower lip. “And here,” pressing against the pulse at his throat. Athelstan whimpers, and his hand speeds up in his pants, harsh tugs that make Ragnar’s chest ache. _Someday,_ he thinks, _I will take Athelstan’s cock in hand and be gentle, so gentle that I will drive him half-mad from it._

Athelstan is not gentle with himself, curling against them as his body races toward release. “Come, my love, there is no need to hide from us,” Lagertha coos. Athelstan opens his eyes and they are hazy and desperate. 

“Please, please,” he says, pressing closer, begging for something he cannot define. Lagertha tucks her hand around the back of Athelstan’s neck, fingers sliding into his shaggy hair, and he groans in wordless thanks. “Ragnar,” he says, hoarse and pleading, and Ragnar reaches down and curls his hand around the curve of Athelstan’s hip, skin bare where his tunic has ridden up, his fingers skimming the rise of his buttocks. In that moment Athelstan falls apart, his mouth open, his whole face slack as his belly quivers. He sobs at the end of it, a harsh sound that he tries to bury in the flesh of his own arm. 

Ragnar pulls his arm away and leans down to kiss him, wet and slick and slow, his hand still moving in gentling circles over Athelstan’s bared skin. “So beautiful,” he says, his lips buzzing against Athelstan’s. Lagertha stretches beneath him, all strength and heat and softness together, and Ragnar curls his arm around her, pinning them both to the ground.

“You know I could break your arms,” she says wryly. Athelstan huffs out a laugh against Ragnar’s throat. 

“Mmm, you could,” he replies, “but then you would have to wait on me, give me baths and feed me and ride me every night.”

“That does not sound terrible; maybe you should break _my_ arms,” Athelstan says, sleepy and smiling, and Ragnar laughs loud enough that Lagertha hushes him, smacking his side. He loosens his grip enough to wriggle between them, Lagertha spooned up behind him, his arm thrown over Athelstan’s middle. 

“You will need both your arms, little bird, for the next time,” he says, words muffled against Athelstan’s shoulder. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Athelstan replies, barely a whisper, and Ragnar falls asleep warm and sated.


End file.
